Frühling in Paris
by Cattiechaos
Summary: Springtime in Paris, 1980. Ludwig seeks out a certain Frenchman to set matters straight after WWII.


_**Frühling in Paris **_

_**(Springtime in Paris, 1980)**_

Ludwig had never felt so out of place.

He felt as if he were sticking out in his sensible, somber work clothes, as Parisians in the latest spring fashions whirled past him in a flurry of color. The city was blooming with multitudes of flowers, bursting with gaiety as they unfurled their fragrant petals to welcome the sunshine. Paris in mid-May was filled with life as the city began to awaken from winter's sluggish grasp, rejuvenated with its customary sophistication and romance.

Ludwig suddenly felt plain in comparison. He had spent his week doing what tourists did: sightseeing. He had been to Chartres and Reims, magnificent Gothic cathedrals in all their soaring glory; he had walked down winding avenues and cobblestone paths; he had seen the Eiffel Tower silhouetted against the twilit night, a luminous testament to the glory of Paris. And now, on his last day, he was going to see none other than Francis Bonnefoy himself.

He had arranged the rendezvous, penning a letter to Francis inquiring if the other nation would be so kind as to meet with him. The response came, of course, three weeks later, written in a beautiful cursive full of loops and swirls: Ludwig was to meet him in a café called _Le Forum_, at precisely noon on the 14th.

_A Parisian café_, Ludwig had mused, slightly disapproving. A more romantic and sentimental place could not possibly exist; he would have preferred meeting in a conference room, somewhere professional and officious. However, this did not deter him from navigating the streets of Paris on said date, preparing to meet the other nation.

He found his stroll through the city more comfortable than he expected. Beauty, surely, was everywhere: from the colorful cafés and cinemas along the streets, to the romantic cityscape itself. The quaint gables had a sentimental tilt to them, and the winding avenues had a habit of disappearing into curious dead-ends.

Ludwig being Ludwig, he found his way to _Le Forum _without incident, with his usual exact promptness. It was therefore to his great surprise that he found the Frenchman already seated at a table on the café terrace, under the shade of a large umbrella. The café was picturesque in an old-world manner, its bricks painted a warm yellow. The windows of _Le Forum _were framed with white shutters, which were flung open to allow an entering breeze, and a railing curved across the balcony. In was, in short, exactly the sort of sentimental location that Ludwig had expected the Frenchman to choose.

Francis Bonnefoy lounged in his seat, his legs crossed at the ankles. He was dressed in his usual debonair fashion, with a white suit and wine-colored dress shirt. He soon spotted the German man, for indeed, Ludwig stood out in his dark, somber clothes.

"_Allemagne_!" Francis declared, smiling easily. The slender man stood, shaking his blonde locks from his face and extending his hand.

"Good day, Francis," Ludwig said formally, clasping the hand in his own. "Thank you for meeting with me." As he sat, Ludwig noticed for the first time the trees opposite him, the cobblestone streets and the winding alleys. Paris, he realized, had made him more observant, for he soon learned that wonderful things could lurk in unexpected places.

"She is beautiful, is she not?" Francis asked proudly, a contented smile curving his lips. It took Ludwig a moment to realize that the amorous Frenchman was not referring to a beautiful woman (or man, for that matter), but Paris.

"_Ja_, she is," Ludwig replied, pleasantly surprised that he was whole-heartedly in agreement. "The Americans have a word for it...'serendipity', they say -- the finding of wondrous things by chance. I myself got lost, only to stumble upon a very useful bookshop..."

"Oh?" queried the Frenchman. "And what sort of book did you buy?"

"Ah -- that's not important," Germany flushed, panicking slightly. "But this is a good city you have, Francis. Nietzsche once said 'an artist has no home except in Paris.'"

"Yes, that is quite true -- she has changed over the years, but several things remain the same," came the airy response, as Francis raised two fingers to summon a waiter. One appeared almost instantly, nodding his head in welcome.

"_Bonjour, messieurs. _How may I help you?"

"Hmm," Francis mused, turning a discerning eye to Ludwig. "_Merlot_ for the gentleman, and _Chardonnay_ for myself," he said finally, lounging back in his seat with picturesque elegance. "Although it is not beer, I hope that you will find it to your taste. Tell me, _Allemagne_, is Berlin as exquisite as my City of Lights?"

Ludwig pondered the question as the waiter returned, setting two glasses upon the table. He brought his glass to his lips, cautiously allow the deep amber liquid to fill his mouth. It was deep and smooth, with a strong flavor that reminded him vaguely of fruit, yet it was dry enough that he set it down after a moment. "Berlin is beautiful, but in a different manner than Paris," he said finally, as he struggled to find the right words that would do justice to his noble city. "The streets are full of life and art, and there is of deep history about her -- I'm sorry, I don't know how to explain it further."

"_Au contraire_, I understand you perfectly," Francis said generously, with a grand sweeping gesture. "A deep history, you say? Ah, then Berlin is like a beautiful woman! For all beautiful women have deep pasts..."

The Frenchman turned his attention to his glass of flaxen gold wine, raising the glass and tipping it softly against his lips. "Smoky," he remarked, a lazy lightness to his words, "very warm and elegant. Did you know, _mon cher_, that the taste of the wine changes every ten minutes it is left to sit? Wine, then, is also like a beautiful woman: capricious."

Ludwig flushed. "Do you compare everything to beautiful women?" he muttered, feeling the heat rise to his cheeks.

The Frenchman winked suggestively. "Now, this is very _charmant _conversation, but surely there is another reason you asked to see me today? Perhaps you are unhappy in your current love affairs and you seek...?"

"Ah, nothing of that sort!" Ludwig spluttered, choking and turning an even brighter crimson.

"Really, _Allemagne_, the blood rushing to your face has the potential to amount in a life-threatening aneurysm," Francis said disapprovingly. The _Allemand_ was always so uncomfortable around talk of _l'amour,_ though Francis could not possibly fathom why. He also could not understand how Ludwig could have captured the heart of dear little Italy, who was so cheerful and loving. It would do him worlds of good if the _Allemand _ever learned to relax. Then he would be more suave, more approachable...although Francis tragically admitted that Ludwig would never be _sensual_. So it was really a good thing that Francis was sensual enough for the both of them, plus Alfred and Arthur (and _petit mignon _Matthieu.)

"Francis?"

Ludwig's hesitant voice broke through Francis' thoughts, and he realized with surprise that he had been drifting. "Ah, _désolé_," he said, a touch embarrassed. "You were saying, _Allemagne_?"

Ludwig cleared his throat, suddenly looking more awkward than he had a few moments ago. "Francis, I, ah..."

"_Oui_?"

"I was wondering if there could be better relations between us."

"Could this possibly be a declaration of love?" Francis cried in delight, leaning forward in his chair.

"Gah - no!" Ludwig spluttered, nearly choking again. "Francis, after the last World War --"

"That was forty years ago," the Frenchman interrupted, the light-hearted expression suddenly leaving his eyes. "You don't honestly believe I still hold a grudge for that?"

"You couldn't have forgotten," Ludwig retorted, his eyes blazing with intensity. For the first time, Francis was struck by the clarity and strength of the man's eyes; people usually called them intimidating, but it reflected well on Ludwig's strong sense of character.

"It was the will of _Dieu_," Francis said patiently, swirling the wine in his glass. "It was different then, Ludwig."

"Your home was invaded and subjected to four years of military occupation," Ludwig challenged, a trace of anger rising in his voice. "Do you not remember how your people suffered, as bombs ravaged the city? As your government fell and gave rise to the Vichy Regime?"

"Then say your piece," Francis said simply, regarding Ludwig with such quiet honesty that the German man felt unnerved. He glanced off to the ground, and he realized suddenly that there was far more he had in common with the Frenchman than the color of their hair and eyes. "It is hard for me to bend my pride and admit that I am wrong...but I did not act honorably to you. For all the things I have done, I am deeply regretful..."

"_Mon Dieu, _Ludwig, this is hardly the topic of conversation for a lovely spring day like this one," Francis objected, stretching enthusiastically. "Allow me to reassure you for the final time that I harbor no ill will towards you. I only wish to live in the present. Everything is peaceful now, Ludwig. How long do you think it will last? It is foolish to not enjoy it while it is still here, and dwell on such dark thoughts instead. War will always walk among us, but I believe this peace can last..._will_ last..."

"A toast, then," Ludwig said suddenly, reaching for his glass determinedly.

"How poetic of you!" Francis laughed. "I do believe Paris is 'rubbing off on you', as the Americans say."

"Perhaps," Ludwig admitted, raising his wine. "_Zu_ _Kameradschaft_," he said softly.

"_Pour__ camaraderie_," Francis echoed, touching his glass to Ludwig's in one fluid movement, the flaxen gold of the liquor swirling lightly.

Ludwig drank deeply, thoughts lost in the deep burgundy of his wine. He thought of his people, of his past and of his future, and he set his glass down with a deeply contemplative look in his blue eyes.

"_Danke shon_," he said finally, unable to find other words to express himself.

Francis waved his hand airily. "Think nothing of it. Surely you don't want to spend the rest of this spring afternoon dwelling on such unpleasant things. You are in _Paris_! Feel the _joie de vivre, mon ami! _Spring is the most beautiful cloak she wears, don't you agree? The new fashions, the fresh flowers, the young love! What does spring mean to you, Ludwig?"

"Ah...spring cleaning?"

"How very German of you," Francis groaned, taking his face into his hands. "Come, we must experience _la joie de vivre, _in Paris - together!"

Ludwig looked momentarily startled, then relaxed. "_Ja, _I would like that," he agreed, rising from his seat. "_Alles neu macht der Mai."_

"Hmm?" Francis asked, raising one brow in query.

"It's a German proverb meaning 'everything starts anew in spring'. I think I am beginning to understand that now," Ludwig remarked.

"Truer words have never been spoken," Francis agreed demurely, rising from his seat. "Have you been down the Champs-Élysées, Ludwig? I will show you my home, and you will be able to experience a true springtime in Paris -- without the spring cleaning!"

"Ah, but Francis, I enjoy the spring cleaning."

"There is nothing to clean!"

"Trust me, I will find something."

"Ludwig!"

"Ah, very well. Paris in springtime it is."

_**Fin**_

_**Author's Notes: First Hetalia fanfic! :) Francis and Ludwig toasted to 'camaraderie'. Nietzsche was a famous German philosopher. 'Joie de vivre' means 'the joy of life'. Le Forum is a real Parisian café that van Gogh painted in his "Night at the Café Terrace" (it is now known as The Van Gogh Café). This story was inspired by a Rammstein song of the same title, "Frühling in Paris", and is indeed a tribute to them. Please leave a review if you enjoyed! :3**_


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